


Kissed the Girl and Made Her Cry

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 03:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: “For once we’re going to be two normal people and not members of the intelligence community.” A tale in which George Dennell eats his words, but not his dinner.





	Kissed the Girl and Made Her Cry

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of a storyline begun in [In Psittacus Veritas ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10711638/chapters/23730273)
> 
> Written for LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Great Episode Challenge

Twin tenderloin medallions hissed and spat, flavoring the air with the savory caramel of searing beef. George Dennell watched the waiter tending the hot pan on the tableside cart and patted his coat pocket for the fifth time.

“You alright?”

He turned, wide-eyed, to his companion on the banquette. “Sure. Why?”

“You seem a little anxious.”

“I’m fine. Terrific.” At her questioning glance, his hand returned to the table. “Just checking for my wallet. Don’t want to end up washing dishes.” He tilted his head and laughed with forced heartiness.

Verity Charles sipped her Pink Lady and hid a knowing smile.

“I promised you a nice evening out, and that’s what we’re going to have,” George declared. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “For once we’re going to be two normal people and not members of the intelligence community.” 

Verity’s high, breathless giggle elicited the usual grin from her dinner date. “Intelligence community,” she repeated with mild derision.

“Mr. Waverly’s new ideas for the computer array are a little excessive, I’ll admit.”

“Just a little? He’s put us back another month. I wish he’d never made that visit to NASA.”

“Me too. After all, UNCLE isn’t trying to send a man to the moon.”

“We’re just trying to stop Thrush from doing it.”

Their laughter mingled, and their gazes held, green and brown bespectacled eyes glowing in shared amusement. The glow took flame. George swallowed. 

“Now we’re not going to talk shop any more,” he said, dragging his eyes to the table, where his left hand rubbed a fingertip of the right. “We can talk books, movies, travel…anything but computers or international organizations. Tonight they don’t exist. It’s just you and me.”

“To us.” Verity raised her glass, and he tapped it with his own.

The waiter called their attention to the mushrooms he had tossed into the pan. George licked the gin and cola from his lips, then rested a knuckle against them. His gaze shifted between Verity and the waiter as they discussed the seasonings. His mouth curved, dimpling his cheek. Verity’s pale gold dress shimmered in the ambient light, the large floral pattern echoing her own deep curves. “Gee, you look pretty tonight. New dress?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve worn it before.” 

“Oh.” His brow furrowed, then he snapped his fingers and grinned. “You had your hair done.”

“Yes, dear.”

“See, I knew something was different.” He smoothed his lapel. “Do I, uh, look OK?”

Verity’s own dimple appeared. “Very handsome. I like your tie.”

“Do you? It’s not too bold?”

“Not at all. Red looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” He picked up the crimson silk with its subtle black and burgundy stripes. “It feels kinda ostentatious without a vest to tuck it under.”

“It’s perfect without the vest.” She returned her gaze to the waiter, then added, “Less for me to unbutton.”

Flames engulfed their entrée, and Verity applauded the spectacle. George stared at her open-mouthed, his ears turning a shade similar to his neckwear. “Verity Charles, we’re in public.” 

“No one else heard me.”

“They will if you keep saying things like that.” He shifted to face her and ticked off a list on his fingers. “The commissary. The telephone. That note in my attaché case. I didn’t hear a thing in Wednesday’s Policy Briefing.” 

Her leg touched his. “Haven’t you liked it?”

“Of course, I have. That’s the problem.” He smiled ruefully, then dropped his gaze to the soft, ivory knee pressing against his own. “You know how hard I work to keep things professional between us at the office. All I’m asking for is a little cooperation.”

“OK, George, if that’s what you want.”

He sighed and pursed his lips as she moved her knee away. “Thank you.” 

“So I suppose meeting me in the map room is out.”

George’s mouth dropped open. “Now where did you hear about that?”

“Around,” she replied airily.

“It was April, wasn’t it? All this business started after that weekend in Maine. Berry picking, my eye. You all spent the whole time talking men and…” Words failed him.

“Sex, George?”

George glanced uncomfortably at the waiter who was bathing their dinner in bordelaise. “Verity, please.”

“For Heaven’s sake, George, it’s 1967.”

“Aha,” he said triumphantly. “I thought so. You girls did nothing but lounge around in your pajamas gabbing about s-e-x.”

Her eyebrows appeared above the top of her tortoiseshell glasses. “It seems to me you’ve been thinking about it an awful lot.”

He pressed his lips together. Before he could answer, the waiter presented their plates. They each tasted a bite at his request and assured him of their approval. Silence reigned as the cart rolled away, broken only by Verity’s sighs of pleasure as she tucked into her Steak Diane. 

George moved his vegetables around with his fork, deep in thought. “Do April and Napoleon still go together?” he asked finally.

She touched her napkin to her lips. “When the mood strikes them.”

“I see.”

“Would you feel better knowing the other girls did all the talking?”

He frowned. “No, I don’t think I would.”

She put her hand on his arm and looked at him in concern. “George-” 

“Look, Verity,” he interrupted, “I know I’m not glamorous or exciting like the fellas in Section II. I wouldn’t know how to groove if my life depended on it.” He set his fork down on the edge of his plate. “And I’m old-fashioned about…certain things. You deserve to be happy and have passionate adventures and your own stories to tell. So I wouldn’t blame you at all if you decided to—Ow.”

George grabbed his upper arm, where a small fist studded with a large cocktail ring had made violent contact.

“Now-now, sweetie, if anybody’s going to hit him, it will be me.”

A slim beauty in a slinky black gown stood across the table. Verity started to speak. George’s hand on her knee stopped her.

“Hello, uh, dear,” George said. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

The brunette slid onto the bench beside him. “Evidently. And who is this, George darling, another secretary?”

“This is Miss Charles.” He turned to Verity. “Miss Charles this is, um…”

She draped her arm across George’s shoulder. “Priscilla Danvers, Mr. Dennell’s fiancée.”

“You’re engaged?” Verity squeaked.

“He didn’t tell you? Typical George. Out of sight, out of mind.” She smiled at Verity. “I think a demonstration is in order. Come, George, let’s dance.”

“Certainly.”

George followed as she slid out of the booth. She linked her arm with his. “Feel free to stay and finish your dinner, sweetie. After all, you must have earned it.”

George clicked one corner of his mouth as he shrugged. “Excuse us.”

They navigated a sea of tables to join the couples on the dance floor. April stepped into his embrace. “Lower, George. We’re being watched.”

He slid his hand to her hip, and they swayed around the dance floor for several minutes, April responding easily to his lead. She held on tightly when the band began a slower tune. “You do dance well. Thank goodness,” she murmured, her cheek pressed to his.

“Thank my mother. Madame Arlette’s Academy, every Tuesday for seven years,” he said in the same low tone. “Verity and I were going to the Roseland later. Boy, I hope she isn’t too mad about all this.”

“She’ll understand. She’s one of us, after all.”

His eyes shone with gratification. “Yeah, one of us.”

“And I’m sure you’ll make it up to her, one way or another.”

He looked at her suspiciously. She flashed a guileless smile, then asked, “Have you seen Mark tonight?”

“No, I haven’t. Was he supposed to be here?”

“He was. My dear partner’s done his best Claude Rains at the worst possible time.” Worry briefly pinched her face before her smile returned. “Finding you here was a godsend.” 

“Well, you can count on me, Apr-, I mean, Priscilla. Anything you need.”

“Thank you, George. I’ll hold you to that.”

The band’s next number had a Latin rhythm. When April looked at him questioningly, George grinned and raised his arm, leading her through a series of twirls. April laughed in genuine delight. “Fabulous, darling. Much better than Mark. Could you dip me, as well?”

“I sure could.”

“Then cha-cha us over to that corner table, and do it.”

As April fell back onto George’s supporting arm, a deep voice said, “Good evening, Miss Danvers.”

“Hello there,” April replied, her face upside down. 

George pulled her upright, then sent her spinning toward the table. “You’re very light on your feet,” the man said. Dark blond hair, slick with pomade, lay flat against his scalp. His deep-set blue eyes glinted with sardonic amusement.

“It helps to have the right partner.” She spun back into George’s embrace and wiggled her fingers over his shoulder. “Ta-ta.”

They moved back to the center of the dance floor. “Who was that?” George asked.

“Jeffrey Wainwright.”

“The real estate developer?”

“Gold star, darling. I needed to make an impression on him.”

“Really? I wouldn’t think you’d need my help for that.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” April said. “Unfortunately, Wainwright has very specific tastes. He only wants what belongs to someone else.”

“Oh, I get it. What now?”

“Now we let him cut in. When that happens, you’re officially off duty.”

They finished the song without interruption. As the next began, April whispered, “Here he comes.” 

Wainwright skirted the dance floor without stopping and disappeared into a darkened archway. 

“And there he goes,” she muttered in exasperation.

“What’s back there?”

“Dressing rooms and the manager’s office. Wainwright is a co-owner of this place.” April looked at George appraisingly. “I wonder if she was right.”

“Who?”

April did not answer. “Come on,” she said, dragging him off the dance floor.

April pulled him into the shadowy corner behind the edge of the archway. She pressed him against the wall and wrapped her arms around his neck. “When that door next to us opens, you’re going to plant one on me.”

“I am?” he yelped, looking over her hair into the crowded dining room.

“You are,” she said. “A kiss that will make Jeffrey Wainwright decide to steal me away from you.”

“Well, I’ll try.”

“Not good enough. I need to leave here tonight on Wainwright’s arm, and you’re going to put me there. Now close your eyes, and think of Verity.”

“Alright.” He shut his lids and wrapped his arms around her. 

“Think about her admiration at hearing how you helped foil another Thrush plot.” April’s mouth hovered close to his. “How she’ll throw herself in your arms and cry, ‘Oh, George.’”

The door opened. Their lips met. Seconds passed.

George lifted his head. “April.”

“Hmm?”

“He’s gone. Do you think it worked?”

“It worked for me,” she said dazedly. 

His arms returned to his sides. “I bet he’s really envious now.”

“I know how he feels.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, darling.” She stepped back and smoothed her hair. “She wasn’t exaggerating after all.”

They returned to the main dining room. Before they reached the dance floor, the head waiter stopped them. “Excuse me, Mr. Dennell. You have a phone call.”

“A call for me?” 

“Go on, see who it is,” April said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

The hostess at the reception desk handed him a receiver. “Hello?” The dial tone sounded in his ear.

George looked across the dining room. Jeffrey Wainwright stood close to April. His arm went around her waist, and he led her onto the dance floor. A sweep of the room revealed no sign of Verity. A busboy cleared their dishes. George signaled the hostess and returned the receiver. “Could I have the check for table 12, please?”

She handed him a note along with his bill. “The lady left this for you.”

George unfolded the paper. The message was written in tiny, precise penmanship. “Your secretary has gone back to the office.” She had kissed the page as a signature.

The taxi passed the darkened windows of Del Floria’s and stopped before a long, black awning. As George paid the fare, a uniformed porter opened the cab door. “Good evening, Mr. Dennell,” he said, when George emerged onto the sidewalk.

“Hiya, Bob. How’s the family?”

“Great. Growing like weeds,” he answered, accompanying George up to the building. He pulled open a heavy black door and tipped his cap.

“Welcome to the Mask Club. May I see your card, sir?” The girl who greeted him in the small foyer wore a multicolored bodice and frilled skirt, equally revealing. The top of her face was hidden behind a black mask.

George showed her his card, then returned it to his wallet. 

“Thank you, sir. Enjoy your evening.” She pushed a button on the podium beside her, and the curtains across from him drew open. 

George passed into the next anteroom and paused to feel the heavy material as it shut behind him. “First time I’ve seen them in place. They look good. Very dramatic.”

The scantily-clad Columbine behind the counter frowned. “I felt safer with the doors.”

“They’re completely bulletproof,” George assured her. “Tested them myself.” 

“If you say so. Do you need your mask?” She gestured to the shelves of black boxes behind her. 

He shook his head with a grin. “Not tonight.”

She reached beneath her counter, and the wall beside them swung inward. George left the Carnival of Venice for a chrome and gunmetal reception room. “I’m supposed to tell you that Miss Charles is in Communications,” Wanda said, affixing Badge 30 to his pocket.

Heather McNabb, her feet propped on the desk, smiled breezily at her section head as he entered Communications. A green woolen garment took shape under her rapidly clicking needles. George looked around but saw no sign of Verity. He started to turn around, when a girlish, disembodied voice said, “Try it now.”

Heather took one hand from her knitting and flicked a switch. “Still nothing.”

George circled the desk, stepping over one discarded gold pump, then another. Stockinged feet, crossed at the ankles, lay nearby. Each step revealed several more inches of shapely legs that disappeared abruptly behind an open panel. With each step his smile grew.

“Again,” Verity called.

Heather worked the switch. The speaker emitted the hum of an overseas relay, then a voice said, “…calling New York. Open Channel H. This is Rome calling New York.”

Heather leaned closer to the microphone. “Channel H is open. Hold on a minute, Valentina. Things are about to get good in here.” 

George’s grin dimpled his cheeks as a voluptuous figure in a pale gold dress wiggled out from the instrument housing. “It should work for tonight. I managed to jerry rig the—”

Verity’s sentence went unfinished. She blew a strand of coppery-brown hair from her eyes and looked up at him through her lashes. George pulled her to her feet. She swayed toward him, then hesitated, darting a glance at Heather. He opened his arms in invitation.

“Oh, George.” Verity leapt into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck so they were face to face. The sparkle in his brown eyes became a burning incandescence. His smile faded, and his mouth covered hers. Verity’s toes curled at the passionate intensity of his kiss. Heather’s knitting needles dropped from her fingers.

“What is happening over there?” Valentina demanded.

“Can’t say. I might melt the circuits. But it’s shifting my entire dating paradigm.” Heather put her hand over the microphone. “Don’t make me get the fire hose, kids.” Her words fell on deaf ears. 

“Heather, I must know.”

“Take my advice: Forget Section II. The real action’s been in Section IV this whole time.” 

Verity drew back, breathing heavily. “George, this is so…public.”

“Verity Charles, it’s 1967. If a man can’t kiss his fiancée in front of other people, then I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” 

“Fiancée?”

He set Verity on her feet. “Gee, I guess I’ve gotten this all mixed up, huh.” He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket. A diamond ring nestled inside its satin lining. He dropped to one knee. 

“Verity Charles, you’re the smartest, nicest, prettiest woman I’ve ever known.” He took the ring from the box and held it out to her. “And if you won’t marry me, I just don’t know what I’ll do.”

Verity looked from the ring to his expression of earnest appeal, then burst into sobs. George’s eyes widened in dismay. 

“It’s OK, George,” Heather said quickly. “That means yes.”

Verity nodded vigorously as tears flowed down her cheeks. She held out her hand, and George slipped the ring on her trembling finger. 

“She said yes?” Valentina cried excitedly. “Brava! Congratulazioni ai nuovi fidanzati!”

Heather leaned over the microphone. “Valentina, I’ll call you back.” She flipped a few switches and said, “This is a Code 62B, I repeat, a Code 62B. All appropriate personnel please report to the Commissary.”

George got to his feet and gave Verity his handkerchief. “Code 62B? I don’t know that one.”

“It means someone’s gotten engaged,” Heather said. “Six for June, two for the happy couple, and B for the little bundle of joy in your future.” 

Verity turned scarlet and buried her face in George’s chest. He chuckled. “She’s got a few hang-ups, but we’re working through them. Ow.” He moved his sore arm out of reach.

“I think the world will survive if I give you a minute alone.” Heather swung her legs from the desk and crossed to the door. She paused in the threshold. “But only a minute. The congratulatory horde descends.”

“May I?” At Verity’s nod, George took back his handkerchief and dabbed at her face. “Tonight didn’t go at all like I planned.”

“I know what you mean,” she said with a watery giggle. Her fingers toyed with his tie pin. “George, how do you feel about short engagements?”

He grasped her chin, and his lips moved over hers in a soft caress. “Very much in favor of them.”

“Good.”

George returned the handkerchief to his coat pocket. “It might be better to wait, though.” He clicked the corner of his mouth. “I mean, between the project deadline and your oral defense, I just don’t know how we’re gonna fit in a wedding.”

Verity’s wide jaw jutted stubbornly. “We’ll elope.”

In the corridor, Heather leaned against the wall, her green knitting several rows longer. “When I finish this sweater, I’m going to start on the cutest layette,” she called over her shoulder as she returned to her post.

Verity tucked her arm through George’s.“You haven’t said how things turned out with your other fiancée.” 

“My other? Oh, you mean April. You know, she said a few strange things tonight. About you and me, I mean. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear…”

Verity’s lips twitched, and her dimple appeared.

“Verity Charles,” George said in mock disapproval.

“I guess I did a little talking.”


End file.
